


The Fruit and the Fall

by Argyle



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (2012), Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith
Genre: 1920s, Biting, Blood, Canon - Book, Frottage, M/M, Reunions, The Last American Vampire - Freeform, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 12:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12935571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: There was no denying it: they were monsters as much as they were men.





	The Fruit and the Fall

Abraham Lincoln was alive.

Abraham, Henry's own dearest Abe, _lived_. And not only. He was a miraculous creature. Lean and strong and tall, fit as he'd been at the height of his hunting career, possessed of that very same canny gaze and a voice with the lilt of a panpipe—

Henry shook himself. He was doing it again. There he sat in the library of John D. Rockefeller's guest cottage, a curious enough development on its own, still coming to terms with the day's other shock – the unmasking of Grander— _Virginia_ , for God's sake. But these things at once seemed pale in comparison to that which sat before him. Abe. Henry couldn't help but stare at his long-lost pupil. His old friend. His progeny.

Abe, whose vampire eyes allowed him to read in the low light of the fireplace; whose vampire mind assimilated the text with preternatural speed. Whose lips concealed humor and wisdom as well as a set of predatory fangs. Who hungered, as Henry did.

And Abe was ignoring Henry.

Every question was answered with a short, impatient reply.

_"How long have you been in New York?"_

_"Not long."_

_"This Rockefeller fellow. Do you trust him?"_

_"Fully."_

Or simply silence.

_"Why didn't you return to me?"_

***

For the next week, Rockefeller and his advisers filled Henry and Abe's days with meetings and intelligence briefings. Rockefeller was nothing less than extraordinarily ambitious, a trait Henry soon came to admire in the man. He was cunning and witty, and ran his empire without an ounce of remorse for placing his own agenda before all others. He would, Henry reflected, have made a fine vampire.

Yes, Henry would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy all their strategizing. Rockefeller's access to information was indeed awe-inspiring. Also: the work kept him close to Abe.

How he had _longed_ for this.

And if Henry and Abe's days belonged to Rockefeller, their nights were their own. The guest cottage had them boarding on separate floors, but their rooms were hardly spacious. Henry invariably found Abe in the library, a book in hand and one of the compound's mouse-catching feral cats planted by his feet. A pretty scene. And one into which he was determined to insert himself.

***  
Henry set two glasses on the coffee table. Then he uncorked his bottle and poured a finger of clear liquor into each.

Abe frowned, giving his glass a sniff. "What is it?"

"Vodka. Acquired on my recent trip to Saint Petersburg." Henry raised his glass, and said softly, "To new beginnings."

Abe didn't echo the sentiment, but he still took a tentative sip. "Not bad," he said. And then, after another: "I heard about your run-in with the Mad Monk."

"Rasputin? Yes. One of the oldest of our kind I've had the displeasure of encountering for quite some time. He did put up a good fight." Henry paused. "Though from what I've been told by our host, you've seen your own share of excitement."

"A bit of an exaggeration. John isn't shy about celebrating his people's victories."

"You're one of his people, then?"

Abe finally looked up. "As you'll be, in time."

***

The vodka gave way to whisky and whisky to Henry's private reserve of blood-wine. Abe enjoyed ribbing Henry for his insistence on drinking alcohol during a time of national abstinence; but then again, alcohol was hardly Henry's worst craving.

And what began as chilly silence eventually became something close to cordial. In the hour or three they sat beside the fire every night, they might not share more than a dozen words.

Neither of them broached the subject of the past.

Neither spoke of the future.

There was only then, their present, the constant specter of the _now_.

And still, each time the fire turned to ash and the night wore on, Henry was loath to return to his room. "Well," he said, folding his hands before him, tucking them behind his back, and then finally stuffing them into his pockets. He was as jittery as a schoolboy brought before his headmaster. But why? Abe would be there when he awoke. Abe wasn't going anywhere. Yet the desire to be near him threatened to devour Henry whole.

Abe looked up from his book.

Henry cleared his throat. "I suppose I should retire. It's been an—Ah. A stimulating day."

And for a moment, a look flashed across Abe's face. It was there and gone so quickly that no human could have recognized it for what it was: disappointment.

"That is, unless—"

Abe gave a slow, calm nod. He met Henry's eye. "Rest well, Henry."

"You too, Abe."

Henry ascended the stairs and closed his bedroom door. Then something occurred to him. He sat down at the small desk and began to inscribe a telegram to his porter back in the city.

_SEND ALONG FORTHWITH: TROUSERS (3); SHIRTS (3); LEATHER GLOVES (2); SMOKING JACKET; SHAVING KIT; AXE. –H_

***  
"Are you sure you're ready for this, old man?"

"Last I checked, you had a few hundred years on me, Henry."

Henry smiled. Though spring was gradually becoming summer, the night was cool, still, and new moon dark. Rockefeller's top adviser had dispatched them to a farm outside of Hoboken where a trio of bank robbers – and murderers, all – were holed up. After weeks of planning, this was Henry and Abe's first job.

Abe parked their car some yards away from the crumbling farmhouse, and he and Henry stepped into the night—Henry with his claws extended, and Abe with a two-handed grip on his faithful axe. (Henry was still pleased with himself for that spark of inspiration. Abe had positively beamed when Henry unveiled it. _Now_ , he'd thought, _we're finally getting somewhere._ )

The place was dark, but Henry could make out the sound of laughter from within: drunken, rowdy banter followed by an empty bottle being smashed against a wall.

"Sounds like they're home," said Abe.

"Shall we knock?"

"No need." With that, Abe swung his axe and thrashed the front door to splinters. Then he was bounding inside, into the dingy sitting room, down the hall to the kitchen where three men sat around a card table; the axe cut through the air, a fluid extension of Abe's will. Henry followed behind him.

"What the fuck?" one of the men shouted.

A second: "Jimmy, get your rifle! Fran? Now! I told you they was after us!"

The last: "They're devils! They're goddamn dev—"

It didn't take long. A flurry of bullets cut through the air as Abe decapitated one and Henry disemboweled another. They fell upon the third together, pinning him to the ground.

Hunched over their prey like a couple of dogs, they fed.

As ever, the taste of human blood was revelatory. Henry gave himself over to the rush of the kill, the scent of gore and sweat and booze, the feeling of the man's flesh growing cold just as Henry's warmed. The knowledge that this, _this_ was the first time he had truly shown himself to Abe. The first time he'd borne witness to the sheer power of his progeny.

There was no denying it: they were monsters as much as they were men.

And Henry was hard. The blood had reached his cock, and he ached for release. He pulled back from the man's throat—only to find Abe already up, poised on his haunches, his eyes blasted black and his mouth open in a fierce, bloody grimace. He flexed his hands and extended his claws.

"Damn you, Henry."

"Abe?"

Abe lunged at him. Henry crashed against the floorboards, instinctively raising his hands, but Abe swatted them away. He gripped Henry's shoulders and slammed him down. "Damn you," he spat again. "You left me, Henry. You left me to _burn_. Where the hell were you? What were you thinking?"

Henry was stunned. His grappled for the memory of that day – Abe had risen from his transformation a wild thing, full of sorrow and rage, and threw himself out the window into the noontime sun – and yes. Yes, Henry didn't go after him. He'd not imagined that Abe could have dragged himself to safety. He was so distraught that he hadn't even searched for Abe's remains. What an utter fool he was.

Abe tightened his grip. It was as if the dam that held back his emotions had ruptured: he was again that wild thing. And he was as aroused as Henry was. He positioned himself between Henry's legs, his body over Henry's, and ground his hips down.

Henry gasped. "Abe! If I'd known—"

" _Shut up_." Abe crushed his mouth into Henry's. It was all force and fang—and blood. Abe bit down on Henry's tongue, hard enough to pierce the flesh. Henry moaned, arching into him, grazing Abe in turn so that their blood would be irreversibly combined. Which of course it already was. They were each of them bound to the other, partners in life as well as death.

And then: "You don't know what it was like," Abe growled. "To be alone. To face this Hell _alone_."

"Yes, I do," said Henry. It was Abe's turn to gasp when Henry finally got purchase, flipping them both over with a thud. He straddled Abe's waist and thrust forward once, twice, then pulled at Abe's trousers. "And for that I'm sorry."

With only a little effort, Henry got their cocks free of their flies and aligned in his fist. The sensation was maddening. They were both warm from their kill, covered in blood. And Henry had long dreamed of them joining in such a way, of them _fucking_ — That it had to be on the floor of a dingy farmhouse, surrounded by their spoils... No matter. Abe was as beautiful as he'd ever been. As strong as Henry'd imagined. Abe was fully his at last.

But Henry came first, gasping into the exposed plane of Abe's throat. Then, several moments later, Abe huffed out a grunt, spilling into Henry's palm.

Henry couldn't help but stare into Abe's wide eyes. He grinned.

And Abe—Well. Abe grinned too.

They lay together for a while, after. Henry found he fit nicely into the crook of Abe's arm.

Then: "You know... you never finished the story of how you... came to be."

"Mm." Henry thought back to that long ago night within his cabin on the Ohio. Abe barely a man, but hardly a boy. For all his posturing, Henry had not wanted to speak too ill of his kind—or be too explanatory of his circumstances. At the time, that Crowley had given him little guidance in the art of being a vampire seemed a moot point. "Let's just say: I was not prepared. But I promise to tell you everything. And soon."

It was almost difficult to extract themselves from one another. The evidence of their errand – the dismembered bodies of the three wanted men – was all about them.

Time to burn the place.

As instructed, of course. But first: "I suppose this will be something of a trial run."

Abe huffed out a laugh. "Rockefeller summoned _you_ , Henry. And you delivered results. I think it's safe to assume you passed the audition."

"And," Henry ventured, "what about you, Abraham?"

Abe gave him a careful smile. But Henry drew him in for a kiss before he could reply.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was my first attempt at writing a TLAV-compliant fic - and actually my first fic posted in quite some time!


End file.
